Aasif Ahmad Shah
‘Gulmohar’, a Hindi family drama directed by Rahul V. Chittella, unfolds over 132 minutes, centering on the Batra family’s final four days in their ancestral home of 34 years. From the outset, the film signals their imminent move to a modern penthouse in Gurugram, a decision that encapsulates the tension between tradition and progress. The narrative pivots on their last Holi celebration in the old house, a poignant farewell that unravels personal struggles, generational divides, and societal shifts. Through this lens, Gulmohar explores sociological themes—economic determinism, gender roles, and social changes in contemporary India—offering a rich tapestry of familial and cultural evolution.
The old house, Gulmohar Villa, is more than a setting; it’s a repository of collective memory, embodying the deep-rooted connection the Batras have nurtured over decades. The transition to a fragmented existence in the penthouse mirrors a broader societal shift, one where modernization splinters traditional bonds. As the family plans this move, revelations surface: Kusum, the matriarch and mother to Arun Batra, announces her post-Holi departure to Puducherry, seeking independence. Arun wrestles with his identity as an adopted son and his strained relationship with his son Aditya, who resists familial support in favor of autonomy. Amrita, another family member, conceals her lesbian identity, while the household staff—cook Reshma and watchman Jeetu—grapple with class-based insecurities that widen the gap between them. Arun, torn between duty and self-discovery, anchors the film’s emotional weight, his journey reflecting the broader upheaval within the family.
Sociologically, Gulmohar illuminates how modernization reshapes Indian families, a transition Emile Durkheim might describe as a shift from mechanical to organic solidarity. The old house fosters mechanical solidarity—unity through shared traditions and sameness—while the penthouse represents organic solidarity, where interdependence stems from individual differences. This mirrors India’s urban elite mobility, akin to M.N. Srinivas’s concept of ‘Sanskritization,’ where families ascend socially yet lose cohesion. The Batras’ move from a joint to a nuclear setup reflects this erosion, driven by contemporary consumption patterns and economic pressures. Karl Marx’s economic determinism finds resonance here: the sale of Gulmohar Villa to developers signifies capitalistic encroachment, displacing familial legacy for profit. This echoes Mahatma Gandhi’s critique of capitalism and urban sprawl, where rural rootedness is sacrificed for modern sprawl. Gandhi might view the Batras’ uprooting as a loss of communal harmony, while Jawaharlal Nehru could see it as a progressive leap toward individual freedom. Thus, the film prompts viewers to question modernisation’s cost: Is it progress, or a veiled unraveling of what binds us?
Gender dynamics offer another compelling lens. Kusum’s decision to live alone in Puducherry defies patriarchal norms and the societal expectation that elderly women remain familial anchors. This resonates with Simone de Beauvoir’s critique of marriage as a subjugating institution; Kusum rejects Talcott Parsons’ functionalist view of women stabilizing families, choosing instead a path of self-determination. Similarly, Amrita’s hidden lesbian identity highlights the clash between individual agency and societal conformity, a struggle sociologist Patricia Uberoi identifies in South Asian families, where personal truths are often buried under collective expectations. These choices underscore how Gulmohar challenges traditional gender roles, portraying women who resist being defined solely by familial duty.
Class and status, central to Max Weber’s sociology, permeate the narrative. Aditya’s ambition and rejection of Arun’s support signal a generational shift from inherited privilege to individual achievement, reflecting India’s evolving middle class. Meanwhile, Jeetu’s insecurity about his lack of education compared to Reshma invokes Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of cultural capital. Jeetu perceives his illiteracy as a barrier to Reshma’s affection, a microcosm of class impediments to upward mobility. This dynamic subtly weaves communal tension into the story, as faith and status
intersect to widen divides. Though the film’s pacing may feel slow, its nuanced portrayal of class distinctions shines through, enriched by understated performances that elevate the script’s depth.
The climax delivers an emotional crescendo: Arun learns he is adopted, a revelation unveiled by Kusum and his uncle through his father’s will. This discovery—that he was raised in Gulmohar Villa but not entitled to inherit it—strips him of agency over the home’s fate, deepening his identity crisis. The will’s formalities expose the fragility of his belonging, a poignant twist that ties his struggle to the family’s broader transition. This moment crystallises Gulmohar’s exploration of legacy, loss, and the redefinition of family in modern India.
In weaving these threads—family fragmentation, gender rebellion, and class tensions—Gulmohar emerges as a compelling drama that transcends its leisurely pace. Critics might call it dull, but the performances, layered with quiet intensity, overshadow any sluggishness. For sociology students, the film offers a vivid case study, bridging Gandhi’s rural idealism with Nehru’s modernizing vision in a bittersweet narrative frame. It invites reflection on whether India’s march toward modernity strengthens or fractures its social fabric.
The Batras’ story resonates beyond India, tapping into universal home, identity, and change questions. With its creaking walls and shared history, the old house is a fading emblem of stability in a world prizing mobility. Kusum’s defiance and Amrita’s secrecy speak to global struggles for autonomy within rigid systems. Jeetu and Reshma’s quiet rift mirrors class divides everywhere, while Arun’s adoption revelation underscores the fragility of belonging—a theme that cuts across cultures. Gulmohar thus holds a mirror to any society navigating the push and pull of tradition versus progress.
To deepen this analysis, consider how the film’s Holi celebration—a festival of renewal—ironically marks an ending. The colors splashed in the old house contrast with the sterile penthouse, symbolising a loss of vibrancy. This visual metaphor reinforces Gandhi’s warning against urban alienation, while Nehru might argue it’s a necessary trade-off for growth. The film doesn’t resolve this tension but leaves it hanging, a question for viewers to wrestle with: Does modernization liberate, or does it sever roots too deep to replace?
For sociology enthusiasts, Gulmohar also invites comparison to other frameworks. Talcott Parsons’ stable family model crumbles here, replaced by flux and negotiation. Marx’s lens could extend to how real estate developers, absent yet omnipresent, dictate the Batras’ fate, a nod to capitalism’s invisible hand. Weber’s status hierarchies play out in Aditya’s ambitions and Arun’s loss of patrimonial power. Even Durkheim’s anomie—normlessness—lurks as the family splinters, each member adrift in their new reality.
Ultimately, Gulmohar is a slow burn that rewards patience. Its strength lies not in dramatic flourishes but in its quiet unraveling of a family at a crossroads. It’s a meditation on what we leave behind when we move forward—whether a house, a tradition, or a version of ourselves. For those attuned to its sociological undertones, it’s a treasure trove; for others, a moving, if understated, portrait of change. Balancing Gandhi’s nostalgia with Nehru’s optimism captures India’s soul in transition, one bittersweet frame at a time.
Author can be mailed at pirasif@live.com
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